World War III

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I stood at the closet door. To open or not? That was the question. I never did have much willpower so hands reached out, opened the door, grabbed a top and put it on.

The chest underneath was completely wrong and spoiled the shape. Not for the first time in my life I cursed that bloody Y chromosome. It seemed that I’d known since I was knee-high to a grasshopper that something had gone wrong at birth; I’d lived sixteen very unhappy years knowing that.

There I was, just minding my own business when Mum waltzed unannounced and unbidden into my room and shouted (as if I were deaf), “WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING, YOU PERVERT?”

Anyone would think I’d just started World War III.

“I don’t think I’m doing anything; I know exactly what I’m doing. And my dictionary claims that a pervert is someone who indulges in unnatural sexual acts. As I have yet to have sex with anyone, ergo I cannot be a pervert.” With hindsight, I could have chosen different words or, preferably, none at all.

My mother hadn’t finished her rant.

“You’re done up like a dog’s dinner; you must be queer.”

I responded. “I haven’t had sex with anyone, I don’t want sex with anyone, I’m not attracted to anyone, nobody’s attracted to me and sex is so far into the future as to be off the radar.”

“You must be queer, every boy that dresses in women’s clothes is queer; I’ve seen it on tele.”

I sighed; this was going to be difficult.

“Would you like me to repeat my previous statement? Would that help you to understand?”

“Do you think I’m stupid?” she asked.

Clearly, a positive answer would definitely have incriminated me.

“Just wait until your father gets home; he’ll have something to say about this.”

Oh boy, just what I needed; parental stupidity.

As expected, the fatherly loving hand left a gorgeous mark on my cheek.

“Your mother told me what you’d been doing; how could you let us down like this?”

I tried, “Let you down? How do you think I’ve felt all these years, trying to be someone I’m not?”

That earned me another hand print; this time on the other cheek. Well, at least they matched.

“You don’t even look like a woman!”

“And whose fault is that?” I unwisely asked.

That earned me a punch in the belly. I fully expected further action on his part while I was doubled over, but it didn’t happen; perhaps he’d finally got fed up with using me as a punch-bag.

I turned and left the house, with his parting comment ringing in my ears.

“And don’t bother coming back until you see sense!”

~ O ~

It wasn’t something I particularly wanted to do. What I really wanted was parental support — but I knew I wouldn’t get it. Talk about blinkered.

~ O ~

My mother would have found the note on the doormat the next morning. Posting that letter was the second hardest thing I’d ever done.

The End

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Comments

As you say, Stephanie...

Andrea Lena's picture

...there is no more personal an physical assault against a child than a slap in the face. The ultimate betrayal as what was intended to bless becomes a curse. I shrug my shoulders and wonder how I ever survived.

  

To be alive is to be vulnerable. Madeleine L'Engle
Love, Andrea Lena

World War III

Short and to the point,also so real.The only difference is I stayed and lost all respect for my parents from that day because of the constant humiliation.Anyway,thank you for a good tale.

devonmalc

Don't confuse the issues with facts

They know what they know and 'ain't' interested in anything else. With that said, I'm from a lower income Caucasian family with deep south roots. I got 'caught' courtesy of my nosy brothers, but was never ever hurt or struck. Even when I came out right and told them nothing happened. It's just a phase I was told. In retrospection that was about the best that could've happened given the time and place.

My heart breaks because of what so many causalities of 'WWIII' go though. It hurts.

hugs
Grover

Memories...

Reminds me a lot of the way I left home...

Thank you

Battery.jpg

Thank you Susan,

This is something that happens everyday and the child becomes a statistic.
That is better than having the neighbors talking,the shame of it all,and if
they take their own life they must not have been "normal".I mean to say,it is
better for everyone,isn't it,it might be contagious!! It is not that these people
don't understand,they just don't want to because it is not " normal" like they
imagine themselves to be.I am in my late seventies and I am still looking for a
" normal" person and I know that my quest is in vain,all people are different
and they all look different to each other,they just think that they are the same.
Thank you Susan for your thoughtful essay.

ALISON

Brave Front

terrynaut's picture

This is strong stuff. I'm glad she finally left the abuse behind. Some biological parents aren't really parents at all. It makes me so sad.

Thanks and kudos.

- Terry

I hear some...

I hear some echos - at least of teachings... I was brought up to think - like that. Which, made me do my dangdest to hide who/what I am from everyone, including myself... I thought I was the only "wierdo" in the world and - what little I heard about the gays that wore dresses (and, believe me, it wasn't much) that was obviously NOT me... I was (and am) no the least bit attracted to guys.

In my case - rather than let anyone know about me... I HID it, I hid it really deep... So, I never gave my parents the opportunity to react that way, and today - when I'm in my 50s, they're taking things better than I feared.

Thanks for sharing this story. It sounds so much more like what I hear others saying about their experiences.

Annette

World War III

To leave everything behind like that takes more courage than many have.

    Stanman
May Your Light Forever Shine

There are those of us

Wendy Jean's picture

that never fought the war. Wish I had. I may have been a much happier person, or maybe not, but here I am. Wishen I woulda shoulda coulda.

Hi Susan This one rings a

Hi Susan

This one rings a whole carillion of bells. There must be so many of us out there.......... My lot are no longer with us, but the bad memories live on. Hopefully it occurs less often in these more enlightened times.

Or does it?

Good spare writing, getting to the point straightaway.

Kind regards

Kate

Kate